Inheritance
by Evil Queen of the Demon Pandas
Summary: Meg and Lark are doing just fine. They're living their lives safely away from Lark's father, the famous Boy Who Lived, while he's off battling Dark wizards. But when a girl bearing Harry's eyes drops into her life, how on earth is Meg going to survive?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** All righty then! First OC fic I've ever done (er…posted; I've written several for my own amusement). I've tried very hard to keep everyone in character and integrate Meg smoothly, but if it doesn't work, please tell me. As long as you can do it without flames, of course. But constructive criticism is always appreciated. : ) I've actually managed to avoid flames on most of my pieces, so I'm assuming that means I'm doing something right. Or nobody ever reads my stuff. Huh. Anyway. On to the fic! Hope you enjoy it. Please review, yada yada yada.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter, I only own Meg, standard legal crap…you know the drill. Let's all just accept it and move on.

Tears trickled down her face as she gazed beseechingly up at him. He wanted to wince when he noticed the lines around her beautiful brown eyes. A year ago, she'd been a normal teenage girl. Now there was pain etched into every inch of her familiar face, and it was his fault.

"I can't do this anymore," she whispered, clinging tightly to his jacket. It was her final attempt to convince herself to stay, to resist the sensible part of her and give into her heart.

Harry shook his head desperately, holding her close. "I know. I…just a little while longer. Don't leave me yet, Meg," he begged. Two years ago, he would've had to convince himself just to hold her. But after months of learning, through her persistence and declarations that there was no way in hell that she was leaving, that it was easier to just let himself love her, he was finding it so hard to let go.

She bit her trembling lip hard. It was taking every ounce of strength she had to keep back the sobs that threatened to break loose. "I just _can't_ anymore, baby. I know I told you I'd never leave, and…six months ago, it was possible. But now–love, the other night I was up until four, waiting on you to get home. The whole time all I could see was your corpse laying in an alley somewhere, the Dark Mark over you…" She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. "I can't live like this anymore. Every time you walk out the door, I worry. I worry about the chance that Death Eaters are going to come for us before you get back. I worry about you getting jumped somewhere. I worry about whether I'll ever see you again…"

She turned her face away from him, staring out to the lake. It was cold and pitch-black, mirroring the bleak misery that threatened the very life inside her body. For a minute, she just watched the waves lap upon the frozen shore, her eyes unfocused. After a moment, she looked back at him, her eyes shining with the tears she would not allow to fall.

"I've got a baby on the way, Harry. _Your_ baby. I can't live in fear of my life, and hers, for any longer. And I love you–Oh, God, baby, you can't imagine how much I love you–but I just can't put her in danger. We can't be by your side anymore. Not until Voldemort's gone and you can look me straight in the eyes and tell me that no one wants to kill you. That no one wants to kill me, or our little girl. It's your turn to save the world, but I can't help you," she said quietly.

"I don't want to save the damn world!"

She didn't flinch. Her understanding eyes just blinked slowly up into his. He hovered at the edge of tears, but he shoved them aside. He took her face in his hands, staring straight into her eyes. "You're more important to me than the world. The world can wait. I'm more concerned about you…and our baby."

"Then let us go," she pleaded softly. "The world _won't_ wait. They need you, they'll demand you, they'll come after you until you help them. We'll be okay." She gently pulled his hands from her face.

"Meg–"

She pressed her hands against his chest. "I'm so sorry, love. I'll…she'll know who her father is. I'll make sure of that. And I'll love her enough for both of us, until it's safe for you to know her." She kissed him gently, for the last time. "I love you."

Slowly, her heart screaming and sobbing in anguish, she turned her back on the one man she'd ever loved.

She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked down the steep hill. From the warmth in her belly, a tiny hand touched her insides timidly. She laid one hand on her swollen belly, smiling through her tears at the child within. "I know. I'll miss him, too," she whispered to her unborn daughter.

"Meg!" a girl's voice called across the grounds. Meg looked up. Her eyes searched the stark landscape for the source of the sound. A few yards away, a bushy-haired figure was waving its arm and trotting toward her.

"Hermione!" Meg smiled and wiped the tears away hurriedly as the girl drew closer.

Hermione reached Meg, panting slightly. Her breath formed miniature white clouds before her mouth. "Jeez. I understand why they shortened the school year, but exams in this weather?" She shivered. "I can't imagine taking Care of Magical Creatures in April."

"Yeah." Meg sniffed a little.

Hermione's features instantly pulled into a stern frown. "You shouldn't be out! You'll end up getting sick, and that's dangerous in your condition! Witch or not, you're still just as susceptible to illness as any pregnant woman!" she scolded, quickly unfastening her heavy woollen cloak and handing it to Meg.

Meg nodded. "Thanks, 'Mione. But…I couldn't leave until I…y'know. I had to see him. Just once. Just in case he doesn't. Y'know. Make it," she said quietly, wrapping the cloak around her body and gesturing limply at Harry. Hermione glanced up the hill. Harry was still standing on the frozen moor, staring out at the lake.

"Oh…" Hermione sighed. "He'll be all right, eventually. I think he knew this was coming, anyway. He couldn't expect you to sit at home all the time, waiting with his baby, never knowing if he was going to come home. He knew, on some level. Even if he won't admit it," she said softly, her brown eyes trained on her best friend. Meg took a deep, trembling breath, again fighting back tears. Hermione touched her shoulder gently. "I'm sorry, Meg. I know how hard this is for you."

"We'd better go. We'll miss the train if we wait too much longer," Meg said, a little too loud.

Hermione hesitated, as if she had more she wanted said. Then she smiled sympathetically and nodded. "Yeah. Ron's going to be wondering where I am, anyway." The girls continued toward Hogsmeade. The desolate figure of the Boy Who Lived stood on the moor for a long time after, that alone except for the winds shrieking amongst the dark, lonesome trees.

**A/N:** I had to squeeze a bit to get the time period to fit with Meg leaving Hogwarts, so I'm sorry if that came out a bit weird. I just couldn't really see this confrontation happening on a sunny afternoon in June. A harsh day in April seems more fitting, hmm?


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **This takes place eleven or so years after the first chapter, after Meg and Harry's daughter has been born. Meg and Lark live in , USA; Meg felt it best to get away from England while Voldemort was terrorising it. Okay. Just thought I'd clear that up, in case anyone got confused. : ) Read on. Please review, I love you all, etc, etc.

**Disclaimer:** Oh, yeah. I own Harry Potter. Because GOD KNOWS I would've killed off my two favourite characters. Of course. Yep. I enjoy crying myself to sleep. (That was sarcasm, in case you didn't notice. I don't actually own anything except Meg and Lark)

"Larka Harriet Lily Delarosa!" Meg glared at the crisp white paper in her hand, silently blaming it for all the problems that were currently wreaking havoc on her life. Her headache had just begun to fade, and already pain was pricking her skull again.

"Yeah, Mama?" Larka bounced in, her black curls framing her angel's face. Her eyes, as brilliantly green as sparkling emeralds, snapped and crackled mischievously. She was a female version of her father, shrunk to eleven again and given the innocent childhood he'd never had.

"Lark, I just got a letter from Mrs. Vega, the mother of the little girl you were baby-sitting the other day," Meg began sternly.

Instantly, Lark's face fell. She began to twist her fingers together nervously. It was a habit she'd inherited for her mother, and it always gave away her guilt as readily as a written confession. "Oh! Mariana! Right. She was sweet. How is she?" she said innocently, peering up at her mother through long, dark eyelashes to enhance the honest look.

"Uh, seems that she told her mother that 'the nice baby-sitter' had 'made the chair dance with the lights'. Mrs. Vega, of course, assumed the six-year-old was making things up…until she found a broken light bulb under her kitchen chair. Now she wants to know how you managed to get a chair up around her $12,000 chandelier," Meg said.

Lark shrugged. "I don't know," she mumbled. Meg glared at her daughter. It only took a few minutes of stern silence for the young girl to squirm guiltily. "She wouldn't stop crying! I had to do _some_thing! I saw something floating on TV, and then I got an idea, and I floated the chair around the lights for just a _minute_ and she stopped! She thought it was hilarious! It was like…well, like magic!" Lark blurted.

Meg sighed. The faint hints of pain at the base of her skull had swept into a full-blown blaze of soreness. Again. "Lark, baby, you _know_ you can't use magic around here! This is a neighbourhood full of Muggles. There's not a witch or wizards for thirty miles, love, and you know I can't do mass mind-wipes," she said, her voice softening.

Lark gave a tiny sigh. "Mama, it's just so hard not to do magic. It's like breathing for me. I just can't stop."

Meg surveyed her daughter for a moment. She understood the feeling. The threat of a Death Eater attack had pressed Meg's mother into teaching Meg fourth- and fifth-year magic before she ever set foot in Hogwarts. Meg had followed her mother's example and taught Lark all the spells she could. In the back of her mind, the thought always lurked that on the horrible chance that Voldemort killed Harry, that the Dark Lord would come after his daughter next…

"Mama? Are you okay?" Lark's worried voice broke through her reverie.

Meg nodded, slightly flustered. "O-of course." She sighed, the weariness in her bones increasing by yet another degree. "I don't know what to tell you. The Ministry won't come after you if you use magic, but _I_ will. If I find out you even thought about using even a _Lumos_ spell in front of a Muggle…" She let her voice trail off warningly.

Lark darted forward and twined her slender arms around her mother's waist. "I'll be good, Mama. I promise. I'll only use magic when you say I can," she swore, looking up at Meg with sincerity in her big jade eyes.

Meg hugged her only child tightly. It was hard enough being a single mother; being the single mother of a witch in a neighbourhood of Muggles was another thing entirely. Still, she knew she wouldn't trade Lark for all the peace and security in the world. "I know you will, baby," she said softly. She kissed the top of Lark's head and let go. Meg ran a hand through her thick auburn hair, just beginning to be touched with silver at the temples. "Speaking of magic, I've got a potion on the stove. C'mon. You can help me test it out."

"What's this one for?" Lark asked, bouncing along beside her mother as they headed for the kitchen of their small apartment.

"I'm trying to figure out a way to make these freckles go away," Meg said, pointing at her nose and cheekbones. A heavy dusting of freckles stood out against her tanned skin, a feature she'd hated ever since she was Lark's age.

"I like your freckles, Mama," Lark protested, opening the fridge and digging around for a can of her favourite soda. Meg had made the mistake of summing a can of the English-made soda once, two years previous, and since then Lark had become addicted to it. Her daughter was, by law, an American citizen, but sometimes her voice showed traces of her mother's British accent.

"Thank you, love, but I don't. They're cute when you're eleven, but by the time you're…well, my age, they stop being cute and start being just a pain." She found her wooden in the jar of utensils and stirred the potion absently. The portable iron cauldron was small enough to pass for a Dutch oven in case anyone ever asked, and just big enough for the potions she experimented with.

Lark, her soda in hand, stood on her toes and peered over her mother's shoulder at the potion. "It's pretty. And it smells good," she said optimistically.

Meg smiled and nodded. "That it does." The swirling, murky draught was deep pink, ebony bubbles bursting over the surface. It smelled–and hopefully tasted–like crystallised pineapple. She took a deep breath and lifted the spoon to her lips. "Here goes nothing."

Lark squeaked and sat down her drink long enough to cover her eyes with her hands. The potion slid down Meg's throat easily, thankfully tasting as good as it smelled. She'd made some horrid-tasting concoctions in her time.

For a moment, the whole kitchen seemed to hold its breath. Lark certainly did, and if it hadn't been for her pet ferret leaping from the countertop to her shoulder she might have gone on not breathing forever.

She gasped and broke the silence, uncovering her eyes and scratching Sofia's dark grey head. "Girl, what are you doing? You know better than to come in the kitchen when Mama's experimenting," she whispered.

Meg turned to her daughter, spoon still in hand. "Well? What's the verdict?" She squeezed her eyes shut nervously.

Lark was quiet for a minute, then burst, "Gone! Mama, your freckles are gone!" She laughed delightedly. "It worked!"

"Really?" She laid the wooden spoon by the stove and ran her fingers over her nose, as if she could feel the absence of the hated spots.

"I'll go get a mirror! Mama, you invented Freckle Juice!" Lark ran from the kitchen, Sofia falling unceremoniously to the floor.

Meg chuckled. She was quite pleased at herself for having finally created a potion that did was it was supposed to. The last one, designed to erase the grey from her hair, had left her with faintly lavender skin that took two weeks to fully disappear.

The doorbell rang just as she opened the drawer full of vials and jars to bottle her potion. "Just a minute!" She yelled, grabbing a large glass Mason jar. The doorbell rang again, and she could've sworn it was getting more insistent. She rolled her eyes. Jehovah's Witnesses frequented the apartment complex they lived in, and those little buggers could be terribly demanded once they'd convinced themselves your immortal soul was at stake.

Jar in hand, she cut the heat under her cauldron and walked to the front door. Sofia was lying in front of the door, fast asleep. "Move, child. You're in the way," Meg scolded gently.

The ferret cracked open her black eyes, peered disdainfully at Meg, then lifted herself from the carpet and strolled regally over to the windowsill as if to say, 'This is all my idea, I want you to know'.

Meg laughed and opened the door. A bitter wind slammed into her, bringing with it the taste of cold. Snow swirled through the doorway. Laughing, she blinked several times to melt the snowflakes from her eyelashes. It took her a moment to realise that her visitor wasn't joining in. She cleared her throat nervously and squinted. The sunlight, pale as it was, reflected off the snow and intensified to a blinding degree. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the sudden brightness; finally, she regained enough sight to be able to determine who was on her front step.

Standing before her wasn't one of the usually scrawny, wool-suit-clad men assigned her neighbourhood by the Jehovah's Witnesses, but a woman, probably her own age or a little younger. Her deep-set green eyes, like two clumps of frozen moss, swept over Meg with what she recognised as mild contempt. She'd seen it enough times on the face of random Slytherins–mostly Malfoy. It had never set well with him that a pureblood like her chose a half-breed like Harry. The woman's silky, straight brown hair fell to her shoulders in manicured sheet, as perfect and flawless as her ivory skin. Her deep green business suit brought out the colour of her eyes and offset her hair beautifully.

Meg was suddenly acutely aware of her faded jeans and black T-shirt with the skull-and-crossbones splayed across the chest. Her bare feet were still a little dirty from Sofia's–incredibly short–early morning walk, and she knew there were dark circles under her eyes. "Can I help you?" She drew herself up to her full height, all five-feet-three-inches of her.

The woman looked down at her. She had probably four or five inches on Meg. "I'm looking for Margaret Delarosa?" she said primly. Meg noticed she had a pristine London accent.

"That's me." Meg felt a warm, furry body against her ankle and scooped Sofia up, unconsciously hugging her close. "If I may be so bold…who are _you_?"

"I am Vanessa Christiansen-Potter. If I may?" She gestured at the apartment.

Potter. Did that mean…? –_It's a common name, girl. Stop assuming every Potter on the planet is related to him_,–she snapped at herself. Trying to shake the shock from her mind, she nodded and stepped aside. "Of course." Sofia slithered to the ground.

Vanessa stepped over the threshold just as Lark trotted up. "Here's the mirror, Mama," she said. "I found it in…" Her voice trailed off when she realised her mother wasn't alone.

"Oh. Right. Lark, love, this is Mrs. Christiansen-Potter. She's come to visit Mama," Meg introduced hurriedly.

"It's _Ms_," Vanessa corrected sourly.

"O-oh. I'm sorry." Meg blushed slightly, then looked at Lark. "Baby, go watch a movie for a bit. I think _The Lion King_ is in the DVD player in the living room." As Lark scurried off, she gestured at the table. "Please. Have a seat."

_Ms._ Christiansen-Potter settled herself on the very edge of a kitchen chair, as if the scuffed wood could somehow transmit its worn appearance to her if she touched it too extensively. Meg closed the door and hovered awkwardly in front of the refrigerator. "Can I get you anything?" she offered nervously.

"No, thank you. Actually, I have an appointment at 4:30 that I simply can_not_ miss, so if we can get this over with quickly I'd be most appreciative." Vanessa gave Meg a simpering smile.

It took all of her willpower to sit down in front of this unpleasant woman and smile politely. "What–" Her voice stuck in her throat. She cleared it uncomfortably and tried again. "What brings you all the way out here, Ms. Christiansen-Potter?" –_Other than forcing me to say your irritatingly long name four thousand times_,–she added silently. Frustration and anxiety made her long fingers itch for her wand. She always felt stronger with her wand firmly in her hand.

Vanessa smoothed her skirt primly. "It's a small matter, really. I could give you all the legal mumble, but I'm sure it wouldn't impress you," she said with a small, very fake laugh. "It concerns your daughter, actually."

"Lark?" Meg blinked in confusion. Her eyes drifted to the letter lying on the counter. "Oh, no. She hasn't…_done_ anything, has she?" Fear slammed into her like a charging Erumpent. This woman looked a lot more dangerous than Mariana's mother, who was, after all, a little dim. While Mrs. Vega may not suspect anything magical, despite eyewitness accounts of levitating household objects, Meg had a horrible feeling that Ms. Christiansen-Potter would not be so quick to dismiss the possibility.

"Oh, heavens no. I've never even met her. Lark, is it?" Vanessa waved her hand casually, and Meg had to disguise her sigh of relief as a cough.

"Yes. Her-her name is Lark. Well, Larka." Meg bit her lip to keep herself from saying anything else. Unlikely as it seemed, Ms. Vanessa Christiansen-Potter could bear that skull-and-snake tattoo on her left forearm, concealed under the woollen sleeve of her jacket.

"Yes. Well, you see, it's a matter, of…mm…how do I say this?" Vanessa paused. "_Inheritance._ Yes. Let's call it _inheritance_. For simplicity's sake, you understand."

"Inheritance? Lark? But no one in my family has–" Meg began, frowning.

"Not _your_ family, of course," Vanessa interrupted hurriedly. "Her father's family. The Potters."


End file.
